Pygmalion
by underhandlilies
Summary: As part of his recovery after an accident, Cloud takes up sculpting. All was well until he fell in love with his own statue, that statue came to life, and isn't at all what he had imagined. S/C. Birthday fic for Tobirion.


**Genres: **Romance and General.

**Special Conditions: **OOC SEPHIROTH FTW. Cloud's disabled.

**How the Idea was created: **Was re-reading "Pygmalion" (the original myth).

**Dedication: **Happy Birthday,** Tobirion**! :D

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Final Fantasy VII or the characters within it. I am gaining no profit from this work of fan-fiction.

**Warnings: **Very OOC Sephiroth, if you're picky about that. Um...

**._._._.**

**Pygmalion **

**A Sculpting Final Fantasy VII Fan-Fiction**

**._._._.**

When Cloud first came to the Home, it was heartbroken, with only one crutch and two lifeless legs. The accident he'd been in had left him not only alone, but practically rearranged. His mother had died in the crash. Most of his relatives were either too dead, too busy, or just way too mean to take a fledgling teen under their wings. So it was that Cloud arrived. He wouldn't have survived the grief if it wasn't for one thing.

A container of Play-Doh.

There was something fascinating about the stuff. He would squeeze it and squish it for hours, and it would always stay exactly the same. The smell was practically intoxicating. Once, in an extremely out-body-moment, he'd even tasted it. It didn't taste like heaven. In fact, it tasted plain awful. But perks and non-perks aside, Cloud felt some sort of affinity with the clay. When, finally, Angeal Hewley—house leader—noticed this, it was the allure of clay that brought Cloud out of his shell.

"I know someone who gives sculpting lessons," he'd said. Cloud had sat, hunched inwards, on the bed, one hand clutching his crutch, and the other squeezing the life out of pink Play-Doh. His eyes flickered from Angeal to the Play-Doh, and then back again. Taking this as a sign of interest, Angeal leaned forward. "Would you be interested?"

Cloud bit his lip and considered.

._._._.

Cloud liked to think he first fell in love with the clay.

It had looked pretty ordinary. In fact, when Cloud timidly asked Mr. Highwind, the deliveryman, if it was special, he'd given that hacking smoker's cough until he had choked and Cloud had turned red with embarrassment. But it was like… there was something _different _about _this _slab of clay.

Cloud had cocked his head sideways, narrowing his eyes to slits, slooooowly working his wheelchair in clumsy circles, trying to get a feel of the entirety of it. It had a special, iridescent sheen to it; some sort of silvery gleam that made Cloud blink his eyes rapidly to get rid of the sting. He had never seen anything like it before. Neither did any of the other housemates. Apparently, neither did _Angeal_, who pretty much knew _everything_.

"_Where _do they get the clay?" Angeal frowned, scratching his beard with one hand, the other still diligently stirring at the bubbling pot. His long hair was tied back in a red bandana that he kept swiping out his eyes, and for a moment, Cloud just stopped and smiled at him. Even though his voice held the no-nonsense strict tone, Cloud could see the familiar maternal glint behind his eyes. "I'm not the sculptor here, kid." Snapping off the stove, he turned, flicking Cloud's forehead with two fingers. "Besides. Doesn't really matter _where _it comes from, but instead what you _make _with it, right? Now get outta my kitchen. You're clogging everything up with that chair of yours."

So maybe it _didn't _matter where the clay came from, though Cloud would've liked to know. He guessed that, probably, the best thing to do was just to take Angeal's advice and worry about creating.

Resting a hand against the side of the material, Cloud closed his eyes and concentrated. Usually, something immediately would come to him—an image, a face, something. But this time, there was nothing at all.

There was a tingling feeling in his scalpel hand, though; an odd, fierce thing, guiding his hand towards a side. Before he knew it, he had sliced, and a thin shaving was spinning to the floor.

And just like that, a fever overtook him.

Slowly, day turned to night and night to day, and yet Cloud still swiveled his chair round and round the clay, cutting and scraping almost feverishly. His brain was like cotton. He didn't stop to eat or to rest. A few times he'd slumped back in his wheelchair and felt an odd sort of grief—somewhat different from the accident, but grief nonetheless—and let himself wallow in feelings he normally didn't feel: how the…whatever it was wasn't _perfect_ enough, or how it wasn't _coming out_ right, or the fact that his trembling hand was going to make a _mess_ of things.

Regardless, those spots were quickly erased by the strange urge to sculpt, all over again.

And by some strange occurrence—the statue began to form. An arm poked out from the bulky clay first, and Cloud spent hours on the fingers, how they had to be held just right, lined with lifelines and veins and muscle. Then he moved across to the chest, puzzling over some complicated shirt design, and how to bring the muscles out. The other arm was next, and then down to the legs, where a particularly hot flash emotion made him sculpt them the way he would've wanted his legs to be, if some things had never happened.

And then, the face.

It spent Cloud ages to make the face. Somehow, between Angeal's sternly timed dinners and little of sleep, Cloud managed to convince someone—a random fuzzy face, not important—to lay the statue on its side, so he could actually reach that area. His project, life-size, was taller than him, even without the wheelchair. Cloud stretched his legs out, awkwardly, on either side of the remaining clay, and set to work. This was more intricate—though, again, without thinking much about it, a form emerged. The hair spilled down, moving past an indefinable face and down to the figure's shoulders. The face took more time, and smaller tools; Cloud worked at it all night, touching his own face and then touching his statue's, trying to make it look _exactly _right.

He'd fallen asleep that night, sometime while he was working. When he finally woke up, it was back in his wheelchair, in his room, with a blanket over him—the work of Angeal, nonetheless. Cloud blearily watched the man from across the room, slumped over in an armchair. He felt bad, of course; he hadn't meant for Angeal to worry about him, as was obvious from the angry lines etched into his forehead. This morning, though…he felt lighter, and more clear-headed than he had been in weeks. He was still sleepy, and guilty, but thrumming with energy, wanting to get started with the day, and feeling like he was missing something.

Right. His sculpture.

Wheeling himself over, Cloud lightly bumped his chair against Angeal's, poking him tentatively in the shoulder. Angeal didn't jump awake like he'd expected, and slowly opened his eyes, staring at him. Cloud looked for some sort of feeling, but his dark eyes were blank, just examining Cloud's face. Cloud swallowed, glancing down at his legs and fiddling with his shirt.

"Is…it…finished?" he finally asked.

Angeal stared at him a moment longer, stretching out his shoulders until the joints popped, and rearranging his kerchief. "Yeah." He finally replied.

Uneasy, Cloud tried to pick up a hint of something from Angeal's face—approval, disapproval, awe—but there was nothing. His stomach sinking down, Cloud made for the door, wheeling himself down the ramp and over the somewhat bumpy path to his work-shed. The idea of the statue not being perfect grated at him in an odd, uncomfortable feeling, which vaguely disturbed him.

He opened up the door, wheeling over to the window and throwing open the blinds. Taking a deep breath, Cloud turned around to face the worst creation he'd ever made…

…and his mouth dropped open.

It was _beautiful._

The clay's iridescent sheen caught the light from the window, glinting mysteriously. A jacket spread and hung loosely around his body, falling open to expose a strong chest, and two long legs planted firmly apart. The figure's head was tilted downwards, eyes closed, his hair falling past his shoulders.

At that moment, Cloud fell in love.

It was a stupid thing, to fall in love with a statue. But there was no other explanation for the sudden, uncontrollable surge of emptiness in his chest, tingling especially somewhere over his heart. Cloud even pressed his hand as hard as he could again his chest, as if to quell the sudden sappiness welling up from the area.

It didn't help.

Slowly, Cloud wheeled closer, keeping his eyes locked on the figure's face. In his chair, all he came up to was the figure's knees. Shyly, Cloud ducked his head, peering upwards cautiously, as if facing a disapproving glance. Even when he met the statue's mostly neutral gaze (as the figure's eyes were closed) a blush crept across his cheeks.

"He's like an angel," he whispered, mostly to himself. Lightly, he touched the sculpted jacket, following it down to the end. "A _seraph."_

"Sephiroth."

._._._.

Just like that, Sephiroth suddenly became Cloud's entire world. It almost hurt to look at him, he was so perfect; everything Cloud ever wanted. He couldn't believe that he'd actually made something so beautiful. The fact that Sephiroth wasn't even alive didn't deter whatever strange feeling had come over him.

It started with little things at first. Cloud wouldn't come in to sleep, instead keeping a blanket in the shed. Then, he began missing breakfast. He began shying away from company to the point of him locking the shed door. Everything Sephiroth was physically was more perfect than Cloud could ever be, and the feelings were overwhelming. No one else could come near the statue except for him. He wouldn't eat, drink or sleep. He even had to be forced to go to the toilet.

In short, Cloud had become a little creeper without meaning to be. Despite how difficult he'd become, however, at least one person still cared about his well-being.

"Cloud," Angeal said quietly. His arms were folded tightly across his chest, his mouth folded in a likewise tight line as he stood in front of the door. Cloud, in turn, shot him a nervous shy smile, ducking his head and fiddling with the blankets covering his legs. He was right at Sephiroth's feet again, and his other hand darted out, touching the pedestal for luck. This didn't miss Angeal's eyes, and he frowned.

"Okay, Cloud. What's going on?"

Cloud swallowed hard. His hand crawled up, trailing across Sephiroth's boots. "Nothing's wrong."

"Then why aren't you eating?" Angeal took a step forward, and Cloud unconsciously pulled back, shrinking into his wheelchair. Though he didn't know it, the past few days had already taken their toll; his already small body was steadily folding into itself. Cloud's big eyes had gotten even bigger as his face drew inwards. He was retreating back into his shell, and Angeal felt sure that he was losing him.

"I just don't…want to right now," Cloud said quietly. "I'll…I'll eat soon. You'll see."

"I haven't yet," Angeal said. "Listen, Cloud. If you're going through anything, you just need to tell me. Is it something about the accident? Is today a date that reminds you of something you miss?"

"No," Cloud said, wheeling his chair closer to Sephiroth.

"Is it the statue?" Angeal's eyes flicked away from Cloud, moving up Sephiroth. "What's wrong, then, Cloud? Is there something you're not telling me? Should I get rid of it?"

"No!" Cloud suddenly snapped to life. "No. You can't get rid of it!"

"Something's wrong, and it has something to do with your statue." Angeal stepped closer. "Did something happen? Did you see a guy like this somewhere?"

"You don't understand." Cloud could suddenly feel wetness on his cheeks. "Nobody understands. Don't you see? There's _nothing _wrong with Sephiroth. _Nothing. _He's absolutely perfect. And—and he's—" He gave a long, miserable sniffle, looking away from Angeal before snapping his head back. "Please leave."

Even after the door shut, Cloud sat there, alone in his wheelchair, and cried.

"Something is wrong with me," he whimpered. "Something's really wrong with me. What do I do?"

Slowly, he turned around, facing Sephiroth. Per usual, the statue was absolutely perfect, and Cloud slowly rolled over, bumping up against the base. Taking a deep breath, he reached out, hauling himself completely out of his chair, supporting himself on Sephiroth's arms. He took a wobbly few steps, finally leaning up against Sephiroth's side with a wince. Even though it was obvious that the statue couldn't see him, he smiled tearily up at him.

And just like that, even though he was sore and hungry, tired and possibly had to go to the toilet, he suddenly felt loads better.

Idly, Cloud reached up a little, stroking Sephiroth's stiff hair admiringly. If Sephiroth were alive, and Cloud was sure of this, he would probably have the most beautiful hair—maybe a lightish brown. Like caramel. Yes. Cloud _loved _caramel.

And his eyes? Cloud wondered what color Sephiroth's eyes would be. Deep brown and calm, like Angeal's, maybe? (Cloud flinched a little at the thought of Angeal, but he decided to think about his transgression later.) Or—maybe—water-blue like his own? Cloud quickly shook his head of _that _idea. He'd rather a Sephiroth with brown eyes instead of blue. He liked brown better than blue, anyways…he always felt horribly uncomfortable looking into clear irises. He couldn't even look _himself _in the eye.

Cloud tugged on Sephiroth's arm, bending it enough so he could pull himself up and perch on it, and hugged his statue as tightly as he could around the torso. It felt kind of cool and clammy, yeah, but it was solid, and warm. On some sort of whim, Cloud looked up, right into Sephiroth's closed eyes, and gave a brilliant smile.

"I wish you were alive," he whispered. "'Cause I _love _you."

And with that, he reached up, trailing his hands across Sephiroth's hair again—he wished he could tangle his fingers in it—and kissed Sephiroth's cheek.

It was like kissing stone.

._._._.

Maybe divinity decided to intervene at that very moment. Or, maybe, Cloud's intense love had some sort of power of its own.

Whatever it was, something happened in the moment that Cloud's lips touched Sephiroth's cheek.

._._._.

Cloud blinked, withdrawing from Sephiroth's face, and then stared downwards at his dangling feet, feeling slightly ashamed of himself.

He'd just kissed a statue. He was in _love_ with a statue. There was something immensely wrong with that.

And how the heck was he supposed to get down, now? Sure, his legs were useless, but that didn't mean he wanted to shatter them. Cringing, Cloud braced his hands on Sephiroth's shoulders, getting ready to descend.

Then he blinked.

Sephiroth's shoulders were…soft. Not only that, but his fingers gripped into it, almost like it was covered with…fabric. Cloud peered upwards and found that, indeed, he was holding black fabric.

Where did that come from?

At the same instance, the arm that he was on shifted, pressing Cloud closer to the statue's chest. It entwined around his waist, tightening, almost as if it had just realized it was holding something. Gripping tightly to his statue's shoulders, a trembling Cloud slowly looked up.

The chest was very real, now—a very pale white. The hair that had previously been carved and solid was now cascading neatly over the shoulders. Cloud dimly noted that it was silvery, almost like the clay, and sadly not caramel brown.

Cloud's eyes finally crawled up to Sephiroth's face. The previous statue's eyes were still closed, but as Cloud watched, they flitted open. Instead of being warm brown, though, they were an intense, almost fluorescent green—and the irises were vertical, slitted like those of a cat's. Cloud watched as they slowly flicked around the shed, finally settling on him.

Cloud blinked.

The former statue blinked.

"S…Sephi…roth?" Cloud whispered. Tentatively, he reached out an index finger, poking Sephiroth in the chest. He felt real enough. A nervous smile working across his face, he reached up a small hand, cupping Sephiroth's cheek. "You're alive?" Squirming, he pushed back a little, looking at Sephiroth as a whole. Not quite what Cloud had been expecting in his mind's eye; he'd been expecting someone…softer. More homey. This new Sephiroth was all clean-cut sharpness, tight muscles and silver hair-no nonsense, no funny business. It almost hurt to look at him. Nonetheless, Cloud smiled brightly up at him.

Sephiroth blinked again. Then, his green eyes narrowed.

"You smell," he said.

Cloud blinked back, confused.

"What?"

"I said, you smell." As if to accentuate his point, Sephiroth leaned his nose into Cloud's shoulder, taking a long whiff before recoiling with an overplayed look of disgust.

Well, it was true—Cloud hadn't taken a bath for a while. He frowned; that still wasn't a very nice thing to say to a person you'd just met, much less a person who'd just, apparently, kissed you to life.

Sephiroth took a moment to shake out his legs as he stepped down from the podium; step right, shake, step left, shake. He held Cloud out at arm's length the entire time, until he was on the floor.

"Is that yours?" he asked, nodding at the chair.

Cloud nodded. "Yes. I—"

Without waiting for Cloud to finish his response, Sephiroth dumped him unceremoniously into the wheelchair—a little _too _unceremoniously, in Cloud's opinion. He was used to being eased down slowly and gently; that was just how he did things. And despite how he hated being patronized for being disabled, he didn't like being treated roughly either.

Wincing a little, Cloud decided to let it slide this time, and scooted his sore bum back in the seat before turning back to Sephiroth.

He jumped upon discovering the man's full attention on him, green eyes gleaming curiously. Just because Sephiroth didn't look like Cloud had imagined didn't make him any less stunning. Cloud gulped a little, staring right back.

"The chair is your legs then?" Sephiroth asked slowly, eyes traveling down and around Cloud's wheels before shooting back to his face.

Cloud nodded, swallowing down the lump in his throat. He hated talking about the accident, but…this was Sephiroth. It would probably be a lot easier. "Yes. A—A while ago, I could walk, but then…but then something happened. I just got the chair, because—"

"…now your legs are completely useless," Sephiroth finished casually, as if they were talking about the weather. He sauntered back over, running his hand appraisingly over Cloud's skinny shin, before shrugging and turning away. "Yes. Definitely useless. If I'm correct, you'll never walk again, especially not with _that _scrawny body."

Cloud stared, wide-eyed, as Sephiroth just dismissed the subject, just like that. He knew everything that Sephiroth had just said was true, sure, but…that had been kind of harsh.

In fact…it had stung. Badly.

Cloud took a deep breath. Maybe…maybe Sephiroth was still adjusting. That was it. Sephiroth was still adjusting, and maybe he just wasn't thinking before he said things out loud like that. Who knew what it was like to be a statue, and then suddenly come alive, just like that? Cloud knew _he'd _be cranky.

Sephiroth opened the shed door, and Cloud hurriedly wheeled behind him, struggling to keep up with his creation's long strides. It took Cloud quite a bit of time to roll up the ramp (he wondered how Sephiroth knew exactly where to go) before he came to a freeze on the porch.

What was he going to tell Angeal?

._._._.

Angeal watched, eyes narrowed, as Sephiroth rummaged through the fridge. The statue was blatantly ignoring him.

"So you're tellin' me that a guy, who looks _exactly _like that Sephiroth statue out in the shed, just _randomly _showed up here, and you brought him inside?"

"No," Cloud whispered. "It—It _is _Sephiroth from the shed. He…he came to life."

Angeal leveled a flat stare at him.

"I'm not lying! He just…came to life. Like that."

Angeal pursed his lips, examining Sephiroth with a frown. The man was gleefully spreading butter on untoasted bread. Angeal didn't know why, but something about the guy rubbed him the wrong way. Everyone knew that you had to toast bread before you tried to butter it. He turned, opening his mouth to say so to Cloud—

…and saw round cheeks a flustered pink, small hands playing nervously with a shirt hem, and wide, shining blue eyes following Sephiroth's every move.

Maybe Angeal didn't know everything that had just happened…but in that moment, he understood a lot.

Cloud finally noticed Angeal watching him and flushed even harder, hiding his face in his hands. "An-Angeal…please…can he just stay? For a little bit?" He quickly added, "_Just _for a _little _bit? I'll watch him and everything."

Angeal sighed, sweeping off the bandana and swiping his forehead, before making the mistake of looking at Cloud again. Wide eyes stared beseechingly back at him.

"All right, Cloud," he said quietly. "Just for now."

Cloud gave him a sunny smile, reaching up one hand for a hug before, shyly, withdrawing it. He turned, sending a happy yet uncertain look in Sephiroth's direction.

The man didn't even acknowledge that Cloud was there.

._._._.

Having Sephiroth in the house was strenuous, at most. Angeal had moved him into his own room ("You're _not_ staying in Cloud's room") where he managed _not _to stay a lot of the time, instead wandering around picking fights. He didn't help with the laundry, or the dishes, or the chores. The other housemates couldn't tolerate him.

Cloud, however, was his faithful little shadow. He flitted along after Sephiroth, wheeling his chair awkwardly through all of the aftermath. He apologized sweetly to the affected, as if _he _had caused the fights. He finished Sephiroth's chores, as well as his own. Sometimes, he would just look up at Sephiroth and smile sweetly, which nearly broke Angeal's heart.

Sephiroth looked down at him occasionally, and offered up a few words rarely—mostly a scathing remark or two. Each time, Cloud had to admit; it did hurt. But he still managed to convince himself that Sephiroth still—still needed time to adjust. Like Angeal had done for him when he'd first come, Cloud would bring Sephiroth out of his shell.

Cloud brought his favorite picture books into Sephiroth's room, leaving them in a neat stack on the dresser. He picked pastel wildflowers from around the shed, left silvery river-stones in little straight lines on the windowsill, and even found a gleaming crow's feather that he left on Sephiroth's pillow. He never got a response from Sephiroth, but he pretended that the man appreciated his honest efforts. After all, they were very nice gifts. It had taken quite a lot of selflessness to give up that crow's feather.

One day, Cloud slowly wheeled his chair into the doorway, watching Sephiroth apprehensively, almost trembling. His creation was staring blankly out the window, where the rain streamed down as the wind howled outside. In the dim light, Sephiroth had a different sheen to him, silver and black and white. Sitting still, just like that, he almost looked like a statue again.

In his hands was the crow feather, and every once in awhile, Sephiroth's long, slender fingers would run gently up the sides, as if preening it.

He looked angelic.

Cloud hovered uncertainly, feeling sick. On his lap, he had a few worn, leather-bound books; things he hadn't shown to anyone before. If he wanted to become closer to Sephiroth, though…he felt like he was obligated to. This time, though, he couldn't be rejected. He needed someone to care.

His wheels squeaking wetly, Cloud wheeled over to the bed, where he put his photo albums on first before pulling himself up out of his chair. He slid as close to Sephiroth as he dared-a hairbreadth apart, in his opinion. Sephiroth's breathing shifted the bed.

"It's raining hard outside," Cloud began softly. His fingers twined into the bedcovers. "I went outside. I can't dance in the rain like I used to, but I can wheel myself around and touch the grass."

Sephiroth didn't move. Swallowing, Cloud reached over, picking up the first photo album and opening it up. Taking a deep breath, he pointed to the first picture.

"This…This is my Mum." Cloud ran his fingers down the page. "And this is my Dad. It was on their wedding day. I think—I think they look very nice together. Don't you? And Mum looks so _pretty." _Fingers trembling, he flipped the page. "Here are their honeymoon pictures. They both were from Nibelheim, so they went to the city, but they decided they didn't like it there, so they pulled over at an overgrown hotel and stayed the night. They said that…they thought they saw ghosts in there."

Cloud kept talking, flipping the pages. He was too scared to look up and see Sephiroth's expression, if he was looking or not. The second picture album was full of Cloud's baby pictures, bundled up in snowsuits and pilot caps and—Cloud flushed, hurriedly turning the page—nothing at all. He faltered a little bit at the pictures of him learning to walk, but somehow managed to get through, though with a painful feeling somewhere in his throat.

The last picture album was from a few years ago; Cloud and his friends, Cloud and his parents, Cloud and his mum gardening. It was getting a little harder to talk now.

"This is…just before the accident," Cloud said quietly. "We wanted to make a garden, because she loved flowers. I love flowers too." He sighed a little, before letting it all come out. "I miss her."

He hadn't meant to, at all. He'd meant to suck it up, show Sephiroth something close to him, and then quietly leave. Instead, though, a few tears trickled down his cheeks, before he just burst out into tears. It was the first real cry that he'd had in a while, and he was extremely rusty at it, because it was noisier than he'd ever remembered; all choked sounds, whimpers and sobs that hurt even more to get out. Cloud didn't know what he'd been expecting; maybe for Sephiroth to give, and drape an arm around his shoulders, pulling him into his side. Maybe for him to quietly hush him and hold him close, murmuring comforts. But nothing ever came. Cloud sat there, crying alone, with Sephiroth on his other side, probably not doing anything.

When the tears finally died down, and Cloud was certain that Sephiroth hadn't even looked at him, he felt ashamed. Wiping his nose on his still damp sleeve, he slid off the bed, awkwardly maneuvering himself into his chair. Without looking back at Sephiroth, he quickly rolled out of the room.

At dinner that night, everything was as quiet as it could get. Angeal kept a watchful eye on everyone, as usual, chiding Reno when he tried to sneak away without eating. Sephiroth quietly picked at his potatoes, twisting his fork in and out of them. Beside him, Cloud listlessly picked away at his own potatoes, not looking at anyone. All in all, despite the obvious depressing cloud hanging over the table, it was the most peaceful it had been in days.

Until, of course, Genesis swallowed his potatoes, leaned on the table, and gazed up at Sephiroth.

"So, Sephiroth," Genesis said, loudly, "What's new?"

Cloud swallowed hard as Sephiroth smiled—actually _smiled—_at Genesis. Condescending, sure, but it was still an elongated line tilted at the corners. "Nothing much."

"Really? I heard Cloud spilling his feelings to you earlier. Cloud doesn't talk to _anyone_ like that."

Cloud swallowed, took another bite, and continued chewing, refusing to be fazed.

"So, what's going on?" Genesis pulled a frightening grin. "Not only between you and Cloud; but adjusting to the real world, and all."

Sephiroth went completely stiff. Cloud's head shot up.

"It must've been hard, being a statue," Genesis continued. "Just sitting there, all quiet, unable to move. But, of course, that's all behind you now, isn't it?"

"How do you know?" Sephiroth said quietly. The hand holding his fork was squeezing it in a death grip. Someone cleared their throat, and the rest of the housemates quickly excused themselves from the table.

Genesis shrugged nonchalantly. "I just know these things. Trust me, though…" He paused, looking at Cloud. It wasn't an unkind look, but… "You can do a lot better." With that, he excused himself, brushing out of the dining room.

Sephiroth got up himself, stomping out of the opposite door. Cloud cringed as the slam shook the house, then hurriedly wheeled himself away from the table to follow him.

"Cloud, maybe that's not a good—"

Cloud looked at Angeal. "But…maybe he needs me." It sounded silly, even to him. Nevertheless, he continued on, rolling himself out onto the porch. Sephiroth was at the railing, looking out into the darkness. One hand was still gripping his fork, the other digging into the soft wood. Cloud swallowed hard, cautiously wheeling up next to him.

"S…Sephiroth?" when he got no response, Cloud cautiously reached up, tugging on Sephiroth's sleeve. "Are you…okay?"

"Why do you care?" Sephiroth said gruffly. He turned, looking down at Cloud, eyes alight. Cloud shrunk back into his wheelchair. "You're always following me around, asking me questions, constantly talking and touching me, so okay, I'll bite. Why do you care?"

Something in Cloud's chest squirmed. This was it. This was his chance to tell him, finally, after all those hours in the shed, and all those hours following Sephiroth around.

"Because I care about _you_," Cloud whispered. "I _love_ you."

Sephiroth's eyes didn't soften in the least bit. If it was possible, they got even harder. "That's just stupid." He snorted, turning and looking back over the railing. "You know what I think? If I were you, I'd quit following people around. I'd find something else better to do than fall in love with a statue. Anyway…that's for _idiots." _He leveled a look at Cloud that implied exactly _who_ he was talking about before he turned away, stomping down the stairs and disappearing out into the night.

Cloud sat there, looking up at the light. Moths swarmed around it, bumping into each other and the ceiling, completely oblivious to the boy sitting, eyes watery and hurt, directly underneath them.

Angeal gave it a few moments before coming out himself, standing next to Cloud. He put a big hand on Cloud's shoulder and stared up at the moths himself, waiting for Cloud to speak.

After a few muffled sniffles, Cloud cleared his throat and hoarsely said, "I think Sephiroth doesn't like me."

Angeal winced, wondering why Cloud didn't notice this earlier. He couldn't very well read Sephiroth, but it was obvious that he wasn't exactly… the same as Cloud. Instead of saying this outright, though, he pulled over a chair, sinking into it.

"You know," Angeal began, "There have been many different times when statues came to life in stories."

Cloud turned his head. "Really?"

"Mm-hm. Usually, though, the statues were women. And mostly…" He thought of a way to say this nicely, "…They loved their creator at first sight."

Cloud nodded mournfully.

"But Cloud…" Angeal sighed, hating himself for what he was about to say. "Cloud, those were legends. This is real life. That means that things are going to play out differently. It might also mean…it might also mean that Sephiroth might not like you at first sight. But…he might eventually."

Cloud's head shot up, his eyes darting over Angeal's face.

"Maybe he still needs some time. You just have to keep being you and eventually…eventually, I'm _certain_…he'll like you back."

Cloud continued staring at him. Then, his face split in a beautiful smile, even as he wiped at his eyes. "You think so?"

Despite himself, Angeal smiled at him. "I know so." Ruffling Cloud's hair, he coughed and stood, looking away. "I'll do the dishes for you tonight. Go and do something you want to do."

Cloud smiled up at him. "Thanks, Angeal." Before he could stop himself, he lunged forward, giving Angeal an awkward, one-armed hug. All this served to do was make Angeal retreat faster but…it felt right.

Thoughtfully, Cloud wheeled himself down the ramp, almost unconsciously moving towards his shield. Sculpting always helped him out. Sculpting was what had brought Sephiroth to be in the first place. If he was right, sculpting would also bring Sephiroth and him closer together.

With his hand on the shed door, Cloud only dimly registered his feeling of unease. It was only when he finally opened the door, and a tool was thrown to the floor in front of him, that he realized what was going on.

There were four or five boys in the shed, older teenagers, by the look of it. Cloud couldn't quite see their faces in the shadows, but he did feel a distinct feeling of unease that made him inch back his chair. Broken glass crackled under the wheels.

Behind him, the door had already been closed, and another teen was standing in front of it. In a circle, Cloud swallowed hard, trying very hard not to look frightened.

"So," one of the boys said, "_You're_ the little sculptor? Nice shed you have."

It was too flat to be a compliment, but Cloud acknowledged it anyway, with a nervous little nod. "Thank you."

"We didn't come to just look at your stuff, though," the boy continued. "What we want is something _valuable_."

"There's nothing important in this shed," Cloud whispered. "It's all clay and tools."

The teen hummed, twirling his flashlight. "We'll just look and see, won't we?"

A pair of hands settled on the handles of Cloud's wheelchair. The other boys branched out, overturning tables and unfinished works. Someone found one of Cloud's old containers of Play-Doh and snorted, throwing it over his shoulder.

Cloud closed his eyes and tried to breathe. It would be fine. They wouldn't find anything, and they'd leave. Angeal…no, Angeal was washing dishes. Everyone was inside the house. Sephiroth…where was Sephiroth? Cloud didn't know if he'd even care, though.

"Hey. What's this?"

Cloud opened his eyes, finding the group looking at the remains of Sephiroth as a statue. With a huff of disdain, someone threw a kick at it, sinking a dirty sneaker into the clay. "Man, that's some gross clay." Swinging his leg out, he kicked it again.

"Stop that!" Cloud blurted, wheeling himself forward abruptly. The boys ignored him.

"It looks like someone was on it," someone said suddenly. He bent down, feeling at it. "Look."

"What are you talking about, moron?"

"No, really, feel it. It's not like someone was sitting on it…it's like someone was part of it, and then separated."

"Oh come on—" the sentence was cut off as the speaker bent down himself, feeling at it. There was a moment of silence, before he said, "Dude. That's freaky. It's almost like someone walked right off of it."

"He did!" Cloud blurted. "And he'll be coming back, as soon as you try to touch it the wrong way."

The boys looked at him.

"So you brought something to life?" One of the boys spat. "With what, witchcraft?"

"No," Cloud said. Now that they were speaking about Sephiroth, he felt the need to defend his creation. "He just came to life, by himself. And he's not a _thing. _He's a person, just like both of us. And he's…he's…" he took a deep breath, steeling himself. "He's perfect. He's _beautiful." _

The silence following this didn't last long.

"Not only a witch, but a _gay _witch. That's just _perfect_, isn't it, guys? That's just _beautiful. _Well, gay witch, we don't tolerate freaks around here." With that, someone picked up the old shovel against the wall and swung it into the clay. Cloud couldn't see very well, but he was sure that he saw a long, ugly gash right in the side.

"Stop it!" Cloud said, rushing forward again, but the boy ignored him, swinging it in a wide arch that took out a few unfinished projects on the shelves. Another swing caught the wheel of Cloud's wheelchair, sending him tumbling out to the side. He looked up, eyes wide, as the shovel clipped the wheelchair yet again, coming awfully close to Cloud's leg. By the way no one was stopping him, it was intentional.

From somewhere outside came the sound of footsteps crunching on gravel. The boys froze.

"Shoot, someone's coming!" One of them hissed.

Throwing down the shovel, one of them kicked out at Cloud hatefully as he passed. Cloud curled up as best he could. His cheek was burning, and his hands. He desperately hoped it wasn't more of them coming up.

From outside, there was a brief scuffle, and some yelling before it faded. The footsteps continued forward, though, until the door once again opened. Sephiroth stood there, looking down at Cloud. His head turned, surveying the shed, before looking back down.

"Cloud?" he sounded concerned. "Is that you?"

Cloud sniffled. Sephiroth strode over the broken glass and, without any hesitation, knelt beside Cloud, pulling his head up. "Cloud? Cloud, are you all right…?"

He trailed off, brushing his finger over Cloud's cheek and pulling it away. Cloud could see that it was stained with something dark.

"I'll kill them," Sephiroth hissed. Startled, Cloud looked up, just in time for Sephiroth to pull him completely up, examining him for more injuries. "I'll go after them and _kill _them for this."

"No," Cloud said. "No, you can't do that!"

Sephiroth's eyes were hard, but, as he looked Cloud over, they lost a little of their fire. In a move that surprised Cloud, he entangled his fingers on the back of Cloud's head, pushing Cloud's face into his shoulder and leaning his own chin on the top of Cloud's head. He tilted his face forward, kissing the top of Cloud's head.

"I thought they hurt you," he said. "I wouldn't be able to live if they hurt you."

Cloud's eyes were wide when Sephiroth pulled away. "I thought…I thought you didn't…" Cloud looked down, fiddling with his shirt yet again.

"What?" Sephiroth's tone was no-nonsense, yet again.

"Care," Cloud murmured. "I thought you didn't care. You were always insulting me, and ignoring me, and…"

Sephiroth let out a huff. "I wasn't sure about you. I come from a…rather different world. One day, this lady touches me, and then I suddenly end up here with you. It…took some adjusting. But I never did hate you. It was hard to get used to." He smiled now, though it still looked tight and unused. "Your little gifts really mean a lot to me. So did all the times you talked to me. _Nobody_ back home has a smile quite like you do."

Cloud flushed at this, ducking his head even more.

"And also…" Sephiroth's voice went a little softer now. "Your mother was a beautiful lady. You look just like her."

Cloud's eyes shone. "You…you noticed?" he asked, really meaning, _You cared?_

Sephiroth smiled, kissing Cloud's cheek. "Yes. I cared."

._._._.

Sephiroth carried Cloud back to the house, his cheek and hands cut and stained. Angeal was at the door, looking disapproving and in a killing mood. Sephiroth gave him a cool glare.

"Take him," he commanded, handing Cloud off to Angeal, "And take care of him. I'm going to get him a blanket." And with that, he brushed rudely past Angeal, veering off into Cloud's room. Angeal looked down at Cloud, prepared to go and kill Sephiroth if need be…

…and came face to face with wet, happy blue eyes and two cheeks, yet again flushed.

"Angeal," Cloud said softly, "You were right. He does like me."

Angeal coughed, shifting his eyes away. "So…I don't need to go kill him?"

"No." Cloud smiled, touching his cheek. "He's wonderful. And beautiful. And he's perfect."

Sephiroth came back out, pulling Cloud to him. "We're going to watch television. You aren't invited."

Angeal almost said something. Almost. But with one look at Cloud's face, he decided to let it slide.

So Sephiroth and Cloud sat together on the couch, watching a documentary on sculpting. Somewhere during the middle, Cloud ended up against Sephiroth's side, Sephiroth's chin on his head, their hands intertwined.

And at that moment, just like that, everything was okay.

Except for one thing.

Cloud definitely needed a new wheel for his chair.

But they could worry about that later.

_fin._

._._._.

**Review?**

**A/N: **Happy Birthday,** Tobirion! **It took me forever to finish this, not because I didn't have the time, but because I thought I would always 'do it later'. Never again. Anyways; hope you enjoyed this macaroni-and-cheesy story in some way. HOPEFULLY, it's not TOO corny and overwritten.

Thanks so much to **ShadesofImagination **for comforting me and telling me that it was going okay. I hope it ended up okay. xD

THANKS SO MUCH FOR READING, WHOEVER YOU ARE! AND AGAIN, HOPE YOU HAD AN AWESOME POSSUM BIRTHDAY, TOBIRION.

(I'm really hyper at the moment. Excuse the weird author's note.)


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